The Love Was Never There
by Bitter Shadow
Summary: A story that takes a peek into Sherlock and Mycroft's past together. A very young Sherlock gets bullied, and a young Mycroft reacts the Holmes' way. Has Mycroft made Sherlock the way he is, or was it inevitable? Disclaimer; I don't own Sherlock. Rating for mentions of blood and smoking


"Shut up, freak!" though Sherlock was rather gangly and tall, he didn't have much muscle mass. So there were kids who were bigger than him in that respect. He whimpered as his back hit the brick wall, forcing open his eyes to face his tormentors. "Quit making stuff up about me!"

"I'm not making anything up," he stated slowly, rubbing the back of his palm against his bloody nose. "Have you seen the way you carry yourself? It's quite clear-"

His blond buddy pressed Sherlock harder against the wall, earning them another pathetic sound. They grinned wildly. "You like that, freak? Stop lying about people!"

"What's going on over here?" their teacher snapped, speed walking over. The two bullies scrammed, leaving Sherlock to slump down against the wall, pulling his knees to up to his bruised torso.

She smiled sadly, her black hair falling in loops from her ponytail. "Holmes? Oh dear, what were you doing with kids like that?" she held out her hand to help him up. He didn't take it, but he looked her over.

"Yes, your husband's having an affair and it is in fact with another man," he deadpanned. He tilted his head curiously at her.

She blinked, her eyebrows narrowing. "What are you talking about? Holmes, you know the other kids wouldn't pick on you so much if you didn't lie all the time. I know you want to impress them, but making things up won't do it."

"I'm not making anything up," hurt lined the edges of his words. "it's true, I don't know why they don't accept it."

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger. "Sherlock Holmes, I'm not going to send you to the principal's office. I like you, and I'm here for you if you need to talk. Your older brother was rather problematic too-"

"Don't compare me to him," he muttered under his breath, his eyes cast down.

"But I suggest you don't say anything else that will get you in trouble. Whether it's 'true' or not. Do you need to go to the nurse?"

He shook his head, the wounded puppy look coming onto his face. He was such a nice kid, the teacher decided. He just needed some help. The bell ringing interrupted her thoughts. She shot him one last smile.

"You better get going home now, okay?" she strode off to make sure no one was breaking any rules at the end of the day. Sherlock simply sat there, sniffling a little. A shadow was cast over him, bigger. Stronger.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft asked, void of emotions. His brother looked up at him, and started to cry.

"M-Mycroft..." he blubbered, reaching his hand out for his brother. Mycroft slapped his hand away.

"Don't touch me," he spat. Sherlock's eyes widened and he looked away. "I will not have a brother who is so...emotional. You're smart, aren't you?"

He shrugged, his tears dying down a bit as he fought to be stolid. "E-everyone just says I'm a l-liar..."

"Do you believe in Sherlock Holmes? Is he real?" he examined his nails as he spoke, whatever it took not to see Sherlock in his moment of weakness.

Sherlock looked up at him. "Y-yeah?"

"Then act like it," _you're destined for greatness._ "don't let their words influence you so." _those idiots don't know what they're talking about._ "don't cry, it's pitiful." _emotions will only bring you harm, and I hate to see you upset._ "let's go." _I love you, little brother._

Sherlock stood, wiping his tears and the thinning blood. He nodded, and started to follow his older brother. He sped up to match his stride. Mycroft dug into his pocket, presenting a cigarette. Sherlock stared at it incredulously.

"You're not supposed to be able to get those, it's illegal." Mycroft scoffed at his little brother's words. He was the good brother, not him. He didn't need to be tattled on by a fourth grader.

"Shut up," he pulled out another one and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock stared at it. "Well?" he held out the lighter. Sherlock didn't want to seem like more of a wuss, so he let his brother light it and he took a drag.

It tasted awful.

In another part of Britian, Jim Moriarty had a shock blanket on. His house had just burned down, trapping and killing his parents. He swung his legs happily, watching the firemen and police fumble around.

He giggled softly, pulling out his match box. How easily the house burned. He threw it as hard as he could, his aim perfect. It fell through the sewer grate.

"Let them be buried, buried alive," he whispered to himself.


End file.
